


Hand me your pain (I’ll turn it into pleasure)

by PLISA



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Dropship era, F/M, Hand Kink, Oral Sex, Possessive Bellamy Blake, Protective Bellamy Blake, Vaginal Fingering, also a guy tries to force Clarke into sex so beware of that (very brief scene)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:41:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29089968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PLISA/pseuds/PLISA
Summary: So, Clarke has a thing for hands.It actually physically pains her to admit this, because to her this is like admitting complete defeat. Clarke Griffin, being vulnerable to something as vain as hands? Please. It’s literally just a body part. She needs to get it together.In fact, she’s never paid so much attention to that specific part of human anatomy until very recently. And there’s only one person to blame for her stupid, silly state.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake & Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 204





	Hand me your pain (I’ll turn it into pleasure)

**Author's Note:**

> So, a few days ago I was having a breakdown over Bellamy’s monster hands and this fic happened. I don’t even know what this is and I’m not sure I like it very much, but oh well! It’s written, so enjoy it 💙

So, Clarke has a thing for hands. 

It actually physically pains her to admit this, because to her this is like admitting complete defeat. Clarke Griffin, being vulnerable to something as vain as hands?  _ Please _ . It’s literally just a body part. She needs to get it together. 

The thing is, she’s not attracted to  _ all _ hands, and that in itself is a problem. Because if she were, at least she would have a less embarrassing explanation for this sudden kink (is this even a kink?). In fact, she’s never paid so much attention to that specific part of human anatomy until very recently. And there’s only one person to blame for her stupid, silly state. 

Bellamy Blake has nice hands. The first time she notices them, they’re wrapping some clean bandages around Jasper’s injured arm. It’s his second visit to medbay that day, because apparently he can’t say no to a damn dare, and now he’s ripped his wound open.  _ Again _ . Naturally, it also happens during one of their busiest mornings, and Octavia and her are already too overwhelmed for this. 

The moment Bellamy walks in, though, his sister grabs his arm and puts him to good use, because there’s nowhere else he would be as helpful. It surprises Clarke to see him taking this job so seriously, but she’s not complaining. 

However, of course, she chooses to check on him right when he’s patching Jasper up. The first thing she notices it’s that this boy is literally here, again, “Jasper,” she lets out a desperate sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance, “You can’t be serious.”

He actually looks taken aback by her tone, “Accidents happen?”, he asks in an innocent voice, almost as if he‘s afraid she’s going to punish him for this. She should. 

“I got this,” Bellamy says then, determined. And now she’s looking at him. 

Her tired eyes immediately land on his hands, and the first thing she notices is that they’re big. Like, ridiculously big. Suddenly, she feels the urge to put her palm against his, comparing sizes because she’s learned to know that she likes to feel small around him. In the physical sense of the word, that is. She likes standing next to him because he towers over her, body much bigger and broader, and she feels shielded. She’ll never tell this to anyone, that goes without saying. 

His fingers are long and thick, dirty from this morning’s hunt. She’s never touched him, she realises then, not even innocently or by accident, and she wonders if his skin is as rough as it looks. For someone so strong, he surely seems careful enough to do Jasper’s bandages with care. 

“All done,” he tells him once he’s finished. He sounds unimpressed as he adds, “Try not to make any more stupid decisions today.” 

“Yessir,” the boy jokes, but deep down he knows Bellamy will put him on toilet duty for a whole week if he comes back again. So he says his goodbyes to both of them, gets up, and leaves as fast as he can. 

Her eyes linger on his hands for a bit longer as he organises the bandages cabinet, and she’s aware that she’s failing to be discrete. There’s just something so mesmerising about them, something she can’t describe.

But then Octavia calls her from the back of the room, and the moment is gone. 

* * *

The second time she notices his hands, they’re quite literally on her body. 

Every once in a while, Clarke gets adventurous. It doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, there’s no stopping her. And today is one of those days, to Bellamy’s despair. 

His first instinct is to say no. Clarke is absolutely  _ not _ going to go with them on a mapping trip, is she insane? They need her at camp in case someone is planning to die today, or something. And he’s absolutely not risking having her running into Grounders or wild animals. So that’s a big, fat no. 

She whines about it, of course. 

“I  _ need _ to get out of these walls, Bellamy,” she crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking offended. He’s not impressed by her attitude. 

“I said no,” he repeats stubbornly. If she wants to leave camp, she’d have to do it over his dead body. 

“Right, because now I answer to you apparently,” she rolls her eyes, and proceeds to push him aside without another word. 

He wraps a hand around her wrist, and she stops. 

He’s touching her. 

It’s too faint to tell how his skin really feels — not that she’s been wondering lately, of course not. But his whole hand curls around her wrist and it’s doing something to her. She yanks it away before her mind spirals down further. 

“Just this once,” she looks up to him with hopeful eyes, and how is he supposed to say no to  _ that _ ? Her blue orbs are shining under the sunlight, making her look more innocent than she probably is. He’d love to find out, and he hates himself for it. 

“Fine,” he sighs, unable to believe he’s given up so easily. She really does have him wrapped around her damn finger, “But you stay glued to my side the whole time.”

Clarke nods quickly because even if Bellamy won’t let her out his ridiculous invisible leash he constantly uses with his sister (and now with her too, it seems), at least she’s going outside. And that’s all that matters right now. 

She seizes the opportunity to observe some plants and flowers. Some of them she hasn’t seen before, and she’s quick to take her notebook out to draw some sketches and write down a few observations. Bellamy stays by her side the whole time. 

By the time a couple of hours pass, though, the fact that Bellamy never moves more than five feet away from her starts becoming an issue. His hand is wrapped loosely around his gun, and she can’t take her eyes off it. His fingers are so long they curl around the whole thing easily, just like they did with her wrist, and suddenly she’s flustered. 

Plants. She needs to occupy her mind with plants. It’s the safest thing to do, and also the wisest.   


So, she has a thing for Bellamy’s hands. And what about it? They’re big and strong, capable of chopping wood and hunt boar and wrap bandages around Jasper’s arm and everything else. She’s only human, alright? 

It has to do with human evolution or something like that, she remembers from her biology classes at the Ark. The teacher used to go on and on about how women preferred men with strong grips, big and thick hands, just because it showed they were strong enough to provide for their families and an indicator of good health. At the time she thought it was stupid and swallow — men hands were something she never paid attention to, anyway. But now that she’s noticed Bellamy’s, she isn’t sure anymore. Perhaps that theory may not be that wrong after all. 

She’s not watching where she’s going. Her stupid mind is too focused on the wrong thing, and that’s why suddenly her heart skips and she feels her body launching forwards. 

Before she can stop herself, she’s tripped over a loose tree branch and is now on the ground, hands first, and an agonising pain on her knee. 

“Clarke!”, Bellamy’s worried voice is all she can focus on before she feels him kneel down to her level, “Are you okay?”

She wants to say yes, especially since the rest of the delinquents have now turned around and are probably laughing in their heads. She can’t believe she’s just hurt herself in such a foolish way because she was thinking about Bellamy’s damn hands. Unbelievable. 

“I’m fine,” she lies, but the truth is that her leg stings like crazy. And so she tries to get up, but the pain becomes unbearable and she just can’t. Her leg gives out. 

Bellamy lets out a weird, disappointing-sounding sound before standing up again and calling for Miller, “I’m taking her back to camp,” he calls, and she panics, “You’re on the lead.”

The boy nods, and so Bellamy’s full attention is back on her. She avoids eye contact while he picks her up in bridal style as if she was weightless, “You comfortable like this?”, he asks, because of course he’s always so considerate with her. 

“Mm,” she lets out, and tries not to focus on the fact that this is perhaps the most embarrassing thing that she’s gone through. First, she has a damn hand kink, then she trips over and hurts her leg like a fool because of it, and now she has to be carried back to camp like a careless child.   
  


This is not her best day.

She notices Bellamy’s strong grip as he carries her all the way through the woods. She’s not particularly heavy, especially not now that her diet on the ground is all over the place, but she isn’t weightless either — and yet he carries her as if she were. 

Her arms cling to his neck for support, and it’s only then when she allows herself to notice how soft his skin is there. Absentmindedly, her fingernails start scratching him just under where his hair ends, tracing soft patterns across his skin and over the few scars she feels here. She would have to take a look at those later. 

“Stop,” he mutters then, and Clarke immediately does as she’s told. Her heart stops. He sounds so cold, so stiff, that she can’t help but curse internally. How can she be so careless, touching him like that? They’re not even friends. 

“Sorry,” she whispers back, looking down at his chest now. Today just isn’t a great day, she concludes.

Bellamy swallows, and looks right ahead as he says, “It’s okay. It was just distracting.”

She doesn’t know what he means by that, but she’s too afraid to ask. Her knee hurts, her heart is pounding, and she needs to avoid the sight of Bellamy's thick fingers curled under her legs for her own good. She can’t wait to reach camp. 

When they finally do, the rest of the delinquents throw them all types of looks as they pass by. Some knowing, some strange, some jealous. Bellamy ignores them as he makes his way over to his tent. 

Clarke’s eyes widen in panic.  _ Wait _ . 

“Why are you taking me to your tent?”, she frowns. 

“Nobody will bother you here.”

Which is true. Nobody is stupid enough to pester Bellamy about anything that isn’t vital when he’s locked away in his tent. The man has gained a reputation in camp, one she doesn’t really agree with, but at times like this she’s almost thankful for it. And so he opens the flap clumsily while still carrying her in his arms, and once inside he carefully places her on his bed. It’s much bigger than hers. 

It feels weird to be in Bellamy’s bed, she thinks, where each night one or two of “his girls” rotate for a couple of hours. She hasn’t noticed anyone leaving his tent in the morning for a couple of weeks, though. She wishes she could ask him what’s up with that. 

“Take off your pants.”

Her heart skips. 

“W-What?”, she involuntarily moves closer to the wall, avoiding him. Bellamy notices it, and his stomach drops a little. 

“So I can take a better look at your knee,” he adds then, and throws a thick fur at her, “You can cover yourself with this. Don’t worry, I won’t look.” 

She knows he won’t. And why would he? She’s pretty sure her body is nothing compared to his girls’ physiques. She isn’t his type. 

And so with this in mind, she carefully takes off her jeans as he turns around, facing the opposite wall, and  _ fuck _ . Her knee is completely purple at this point. She covers herself from the knees up with the fur, “I’m ready.”

Bellamy turns around at her words, and proceeds to sit down next to her. He inspects her knee at first, not touching it, and she can’t help but ask, “Since when do you have basic medical knowledge?”

He doesn’t even look up at her as he answers, “This is pretty basic stuff. Happens all the time. I’ve had people injured like this during hunts,” silence. Then, “I think it’s superficial, nothing you should worry about.”

“Well, it hurts.”

Without another word, he gets up and fetches something from his makeshift drawer. It’s an ointment. 

“Monty and Jasper always give me one of these to take on hunting trips,” he tells her as he opens the lid, “It’s mint and some other plant. For the discomfort and swelling.”

Clarke can do as much as nod, because then he dips his index and middle finger into the ointment, and she’s completely gone.   


  
This isn’t fair. She must have hit her head too when she tripped over, because why the hell is she imagining how those two fingers would feel inside of her? Her heart starts beating faster, and she can’t take her eyes off of them. They’re long, and thick, and rough, and she can’t do this anymore. She mentally shakes her head. Enough is enough.  


He takes them out a second later, and proceeds to massage her knee with them. It feels cold and fresh against her skin, liberating. His fingers are tracing a soft circling pattern on her knee, so very delicately. It doesn’t feel like the same hand capable of firing a gun, of inflicting pain, of killing. 

“Feels good, Princess?”

It’s the first time that nickname has left his lips in days, and she’s almost relieved to hear it. For a second she feared it was going to be gone forever — she doesn’t like it when Finn says it, not anymore, but in Bellamy’s voice it sounds different. Like it’s his way of being nice to her now. At least when he doesn’t use it during one of their many arguments, but even then she knows the word has gained a completely different meaning. 

And so she nods, because it does feel good, and he smiles in return. It’s the first time she’s seen his smile in days, too, and it does something to her heart. 

He continues his massage, now using his whole hand, which covers all her knee and beyond. But he’s so careful, does it so slow, almost as if he’s afraid of breaking her, that she relaxes under his touch. 

She lays back onto his pillows as she continues to feel the warm pressure of his hand on her knee, and closes her eyes. It’s the first time sleep washes over her so easily. 

His touch becomes more faint as she feels herself falling into the depths of her dreams. The last thing she feels are his lips on her forehead.   
  


* * *

She doesn’t know why she agreed to this in the first place. 

They should be preparing for an attack, planning for when the Ark comes down. They shouldn’t be doing  _ this _ . 

She’s standing by the Dropship door, a scowl on her face, when she feels Jasper’s hand wrap around hers. She’s confused for a moment until she notices that she now has a wooden cup full of moonshine between her fingers. She’s about to protest, but the boy is already gone — in every aspect of the word. 

So she lets out a defeated sigh, and brings the cup to her lips. 

Looking over at the crowd, she notices most of them are by the fire. Octavia is dancing with Harper and Monty, Jasper is probably up to no good somewhere, Miller is whispering and laughing with Brian, and Bellamy… 

Bellamy’s with Bree. One of his girls.  _ Right _ . 

They look innocent enough. They’re just talking, leaning close into each other, but the fact that they’re away from the group can’t mean anything good. She internally shakes her head. Whatever. He can do whatever the hell he wants, right? He doesn’t answer to her. Plus she’s gotten over her stupid kink, anyway. Just like she predicted, it was a matter of days before she came back to her senses. 

Hands. _Please_. That’s something stupid to drool over. 

Sure, Bellamy’s look bigger compared to the rest of the boys down here, but maybe that’s because he’s actually a man. He’s quite a few years older, if she remembers correctly. And he’s also stronger, but also more ruthless and impulsive, so perhaps the correct move was to get over her stupid obsession after all. And she did that. So all is great. 

Or that’s what she tells herself, until her eyes rest on his hand around the cup, similar to the one she’s holding, but on his grip it looks like a miniature version of it. 

_ No _ . 

She brings her moonshine to her lips again, and swallows the stingy liquid. She’s not going back to that dark hole. 

“Hey, Clarke.”

She turns around immediately, heart beating fast, and she’s unable to recognise the voice until she sees him. 

“Hi, Tim.”

The boy leans on the metal Dropship wall next to her, and she notices he’s holding a cup too, only that his is much emptier. 

“Nice party, huh?”, he mutters then before taking another sip, “I didn’t think you’d agree to it.”

_ I didn’t _ , she wants to say, but instead, “We deserved a break,” because now that she thinks about it, it’s probably true. 

He stays quiet after that. She hasn’t talked to Tim that much on the ground — he’s never gotten severely hurt, so she’s never seen him at medbay, and it’s not like she spends her time anywhere else. But this is a party, right? She should probably make some effort to interact with more people. Make more friends. 

Just as she’s about to speak, he says, “Wanna go to my tent?”

She turns her head to look at him, eyes wide. He has to be drunk. There’s no way he’s just asked her  _ this _ . They haven’t interacted once, not even—

Suddenly, his hand is on the small of her back. 

“Hey,” she jumps forward, immediately getting away from his touch, “What the hell are you doing?”

Tim shrugs, and takes one last sip of his drink before throwing the cup on the ground. She swallows, and takes a step back. Surely, he won’t try anything, right? Everyone else is just a few feet away, even if drunk and way too distracted. 

“Come on, Princess,” he smirks, and takes a step forward in her direction, “Let’s have some fun. You and I.”

“Don’t call me that,” her voice is a warning, but it doesn’t do much for him. That stupid smirk is still plastered all over his face. 

The nickname sounds forbidden when he says it, poisoned. It makes her stomach turn whenever she hears it, as if she knows they’re making fun of her. Only one person makes it sound right. Someone who’s not here right now. 

Tim keeps walking in her direction, and so she keeps walking backwards until her back collides with a tree.  _ Fuck _ . 

He’s getting dangerously close, so close she can smell the moonshine in his breath. She wants to throw up. 

“Leave me alone,” she tries to sound fierce, but she knows it’s useless. Looking over at the crowd by the fire, she notices it’s too dark for them to see her. And even if they did, they would probably think they need some privacy. 

His hand is next to her face now, holding himself up against the tree, his face mere inches away from hers, and there’s no escape. She’s frozen by panic, and she can’t react. 

“Let’s see how much of a prude you really are,” he whispers as his other hand snakes around her waist, under her t-shirt. She tries to push him away, but he doesn’t move. He’s too strong for her. 

His lips are brushing her ear now, and her breath hitches, “You like it from behind, Princess? Cause I’m gonna take you on your kn—”

Before he can finish his sentence, he lets out a loud grunt and suddenly he’s being tossed away from her, and thrown to the dirty ground at her feet. 

“Say that to my face, you fucking asshole,” in a flash, she sees Bellamy throwing himself at him, punching his face with a kind of rage she has never seen before in him. Not even with Murphy. She freezes into place, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Say that to my face right now, you fucking coward. Come on, I’m fucking waiting.”

Tim coughs, and spits blood into the ground next to him. Bellamy grabs him by the collar of his jacket, and punches him again just as the crowd has started to notice the commotion. Octavia is the first one to react. 

“Bell!”, she yells, and runs towards her brother, yanking him away from the boy immediately, “Stop, Bell. I think he gets it.”

Bellamy gives Tim one last hard look. His hands are shaking with anger, “We’ll decide your punishment in the morning. Don’t you fucking dare go near her ever again,” he warns him, but the boy can’t even nod. 

Clarke notices a couple of guys helping him up, but her eyes are lost and she sees everything and nothing at the same time, until there’s a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“Are you okay?”, Octavia frowns as she examines her face, looking for bruises. 

She nods. 

“Did he do something to you?”, Bellamy scowls then, the anger still visible in his features. He’s agitated, and she’s never seen him like this. 

She shakes her head. 

Bellamy doesn’t buy it. 

“You’re coming with me,” his voice sounds like a command, and she shivers. She can’t move. 

Octavia gives her brother a pointed look that he knows all too well, and immediately his expression softens. Right. He has to be gentle. This isn’t the moment to boss her around, not after what he’s just witnessed. 

“Come with me, please?”, he asks her again, and this time his eyes look more inviting, less threatening. This is the Bellamy she knows. Bellamy would never hurt her. 

So she nods, and walks with him to his tent as he keeps a protective hand on her back. 

When he opens the flap of his tent, she’s surprised to feel her muscles relax, her breathing even out. She’s okay here. Nothing bad ever happens when Bellamy is around. 

He doesn’t invite her to sit, but she does anyway. Flashbacks from the last time she was on his bed flood her mind then, how she fell asleep, how she woke up a couple of hours later but Bellamy let her stay until the morning while he slept on the floor. How she felt his lips brush her forehead in a way that almost resembled a kiss. Had she imagined things?

“Tell me what happened,” voice low, his long fingers brush hers as he hands her a cup of water. The cold liquid runs down her throat and it feels like heaven. 

His hands are folded over his lap as he kneels down in front of her, and suddenly she can’t peel her eyes off of them. They’re the same hands that healed her knee so carefully, that almost beat Tim to death just a few minutes ago. 

She swallows, and looks away, “He wanted to…,” she starts, but she’s unable to continue. 

The atmosphere changes then. She sees it first in his eyes, then the tension on his muscles, and the inability to think clearly soon follows. The rational Bellamy is lost, replaced by his primitive self. The Rebel King. Ruthless, emotion-driven, impulsive Bellamy. The one she doesn’t want to see. 

“It’s okay,” she adds, quickly, “He didn’t do anything.”

_ Because you stopped him _ , she wants to add, but she doesn’t. 

“Clarke…,” he sighs, and runs a hand across his tired face, “I’m not stupid. I know he was trying to force you into doing something you didn’t want to do.”

She looks away again, a lump forming in her throat, “He… he called me Princess.”

Now Bellamy’s tense, “What?”

Her hands start shaking, but it’s so faint he doesn’t notice, “He called me Princess,” she repeats, “But not how you do it. He... the way he said it, how it sounded…”

The expression on her face is enough for Bellamy to snap again. He gets up in a flash, “That’s it. I’m gonna fucking kill him.” 

“Bellamy, wait!”, she hurries to stop him, grabbing the first thing she can find. His hand. 

He stops right on his tracks, dark eyes instantly going down to where Clarke’s fingers are wrapped around his. He relaxes under her touch just enough, “Please,” she’s looking at him now, almost begging, “Just stay here, please. I don’t want… I need…”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures her quickly, and to her surprise pulls her in for a hug. 

In his embrace the world stops still on its axis. There is no time, no wind, no muffled and drunk voices outside. Just the two of them. Clarke’s mind is at peace. His hands on her back guide her closer to his chest, soft and warm. This is the comfort she’s been longing since even before she came down to the ground. This is her first real hug since her father was floated, and it feels… 

Calm. Undemanding.

There is something so warm, something that feels right, smells right. Then, she realises that it’s just  _ him _ . Just Bellamy. She lets her body relax under his touch, her muscles become loose. He gives her the respect of an equal but holds her like he’s her shield. Protective. Perhaps he’s seen her like this all along, fierce but in need of protection. She’s glad Bellamy’s always watching over her. It makes her feel safe. 

She feels him brush her hair back with gentle fingers, and then kiss her softly on top of her head. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he whispers, and holds her tighter. 

She breathes him in, and already misses this moment that she knows it’s about to end, “Thank you. For always watching over me.”

His heart tightens at her words, and he can’t hold himself back as he says, “I care about you too much not to.”

* * *

From the next day on, Bellamy becomes obsessed. 

He becomes obsessed with checking if she’s okay every minute of every hour, scanning her face and neck for bruises, asking her if she’s eaten that day, bringing her food and water to medbay just in case. 

Clarke doesn’t know what to make of this. 

It doesn’t help that his hands now touch her face every day, usually a slight brush on her cheek, or on her neck as he pulls her hair backwards. His hand covers all of her face, and now she’s in too deep again. 

Octavia calls him out first. Because her brother only behaves like an overprotective asshole when it comes to her, and the fact that Clarke made it to his list is worth discussing. 

“So,” she sneaks up behind him one morning before he starts his guard duty. He doesn’t flinch at her sudden appearance, “What’s up with you and Clarke?” 

His eyes never leave the horizon as he waits for Miller to exit his tent, “Nothing is up with us.”

“Right,” she frowns, not convinced, “Since when do you check her face for scratches?” 

He swallows, “You know what happened with Tim last week,” he says, voice flat, “I’m just making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“But you don’t have to check on her every two seconds,” the younger Blake points out, and she knows she’s caught him red handed, “You like her.”

He doesn’t hesitate as he says, “I like her as much as I like Monty or Jasper. I tolerate her.”

Octavia rolls her eyes, “I’ve known you for eighteen years, Bell. You don’t like her like that,” she looks around, checking that everyone else is out of earshot, “You  _ like _ her.”

He knows his sister, and he also knows she’ll pester him until she hears what she wants to hear. The truth is that perhaps she likes her a little bit more than he likes Monty and Jasper. They’re definitely not in the same category, but Octavia doesn’t need to know that. 

He tightens his grip on his gun, “I want her to be alright.”

Octavia eyes him carefully, “No — you want all of us to be alright. But you take care of her like you do with me. That’s different.”

Luckily for him, Miller chooses that moment to leave his tent. He turns to his sister, “We’ll continue later.”

He can’t take Clarke off his mind for the rest of the day, and it’s slowly becoming a problem. 

He’s pretty sure it’s just Octavia’s words doing things to his mind, but as he strolls outside of the wall, gun ready over his shoulder, he’s starting to think that perhaps there’s some truth to them. 

At first, he didn’t think anything of her other than that she was a privileged brat. And then there’s the Princess thing. It started out as a joke, a name to mock her even, but now it has turned into something else. That’s just who she is, a Princess. Not bratty, not any more privileged than any of the other delinquents. Just a Princess.  _ His _ . 

When she told him that Tim had called her Princess, how it sounded  _ wrong _ when he said it, he was clouded with rage. It felt as if someone had invaded his territory, had taken something that belonged only to him. 

And he isn’t going to let it slide. 

At the end of the day, when the sun is starting to set, his patrol ends without any major events, and as he comes through the main doors of camp, he spots her. 

Clarke is kneeling down next to Fox, who seems to have a scratch on her leg, and she isn’t paying attention to him, but he can’t peel his eyes off her. He can’t hear her, but he knows her voice is soft as she tries not to make the girl freak out, calm and collected as always. Unlike him, it seems. He’s going to kill that bastard. He’s going to—

“Bellamy.”

He frowns, and turns around only to come face to face with the last person he was expecting to see today. 

“Tim.”

The boy looks scared under his gaze, and he has to bury his hands inside his pockets to prevent them from shaking. He can’t look directly at his eyes as he speaks, “I came to apologise. What I did was very wrong.”

Bellamy is surprised by this decision, but he doesn’t show it. His stare on him remains hard, “Did you apologise to Clarke?”

He shakes his head slowly, “I didn’t think she’d want me near her. So I came to you because I know how much she means to you,” he says, and his heart stops at his words. Can everyone else see that too? Bellamy swallows, “It will never happen again. I got drunk and I wasn’t thinking straight.” 

Tim genuinely looks sorry, and at least he had the guts to come face him and apologise, but the image of his body pressed against Clarke’s can’t leave his mind. It boils his blood to an extent he’s never experienced before — this isn’t the same thing he experiences with Octavia, similar but not quite. And he wants to punch him for it. 

“Listen,” he gets closer to the boy now, trying to intimidate him. It works, “Next time you call her Princess, or even dare to go near her, you and I will have a fucking problem. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” he nods quickly.

“Good. Go away.”

Tim leaves as fast as he’s come, and suddenly he’s alone again. Until he turns around. 

“What did he want?”

Clarke is standing a few feet away from him, far too close, and it actually startles him. He clears his throat and starts walking to his tent. She’s right besides him. 

“To apologise,” he catches Octavia’s knowing stare as they both walk through camp. Monty and Harper are already working on the fire for tonight, “For what he did to you.”

She frowns, “Did you forgive him?”

“It’s not my place to forgive him,” he shrugs as he opens the flap to his tent and lets her in. It almost feels like a routine now, “But I didn’t.”

He swears he sees the hint of a smile in her face, but when he looks back at her, her usual worried expression is all over the place, “Alright. Let me check for injuries.”

“Bellamy, I’m fine. I didn’t leave medbay all day.”

“Don’t care,” his face is stern as his hand carefully travels to her chin. Her breath hitches at his touch. He is tender as he lifts her head up to check her neck, then both of her sides. She tries not to think about the warmth of his fingers on her skin, but they’re burning on her like fire. 

Then, he drops his hand, giving her one last look and turning around. The inspection has ended. She’s ready to go. 

And so she turns around, hand lifting the flap, when suddenly, “Clarke, wait.”

Her breathing stops, “Yeah?”

She’s looking at him now, and maybe for the first time ever, she can’t read his expression. He’s like a closed book at this moment, forehead frowned and expression stern, almost as if he wants to get something out of his chest but can’t. 

“Are you alright?”, he asks her then, voice softer than she’s ever heard it. Or maybe it’s just her imagination, “Like,  _ really _ alright.”

She doesn’t know what to answer. He’ll know if she’s lying, but again… “I don’t know,” she admits, and shrugs. She lets her shoulders and her eyes fall, unable to hold his gaze. 

“I need to ask you this,” he says then in a low whisper, “Clarke, did he… Did he touch you?”

She feels her hands shaking, her body remembering how he made her feel against that tree, “No,” she says then, as she remembers his hand on her skin, around her waist. Bellamy doesn’t need to hear it.

“Clarke…,” he starts again, seeing right through the hidden truth, “Look at me.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Bellamy…”

“Clarke,” he insists, not letting go, “Tell me,  _ please _ . I need to know. I need to know if that fucking scumbag put his hands on you.”

She shivers as the image crosses her mind again, Tim’s dirty hands contaminating her skin. His touch is nothing like Bellamy’s — it’s not strong yet soft, it’s not protective, but demanding. 

“ _ Princess _ .”

It’s the nickname that does it. He knows it, and she hates herself for giving in. She looks up at him, and sees that his gaze is soft on her, “Tell me what happened, please.”

He extends his hand and places it on her hip, an attempt at a comforting touch. But Clarke jumps back in response so quickly that it feels like she’s been electrocuted, and Bellamy has never seen her look so on edge. Something’s definitely not right. 

Her hand immediately goes to where he’s just touched her, as if to check that she’s truly okay, and that’s when it clicks in his mind. 

“He touched you there,” it’s not a question. He feels the anger building up as he speaks. 

Clarke gives him a faint nod, “On my back too,” her voice is small, afraid, and she’s never sounded so weak. This isn’t Clarke, this isn’t  _ his _ Clarke, and that stupid motherfucker will pay for it. 

“Please Bellamy, don’t do anything,” he hears her say, agitated, “He apologised. I forgive him. It’s okay. Let’s move on.”

“Clarke, your reaction to my touch…,” he can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t let his feelings show. 

“It has nothing to do with you,” she reassures him, although he’s not sure he believes her. 

He swallows, “I don’t want you to feel unsafe around me. If this is what my touch does to you, if I make you uncomfortable—”

“Bellamy,  _ no _ ,” she shakes her head, and walks up to him until she’s right in front of him. Slowly, she brings her hands to his arms, touching his exposed skin there, and he can only watch as his heart races, “You make me the opposite of uncomfortable.”

Her words encourage him to pick up where he left off. Carefully, both of his hands settle on her hips, caressing her skin through her t-shirt. He’s not demanding, not rough, and yet she wants him to be. 

“Is this okay?”, he asks then, and she can only nod. 

His touch is different to everything she’s ever felt before. There’s something so familiar about it, something that makes her feel secure. It’s his hands, she’s pretty sure — so warm, so big they almost cover the entirety of her back, and always so respectful. This has nothing to do with the rebellious Bellamy she sees daily, outside of this tent. This is who he really is inside, she knows that.

His hands run up her sides slowly, giving her time to protest, but she doesn’t. They travel to her back then, caressing it softly until she feels them lifting her t-shirt up just a bit. He’s testing the waters. 

It all feels so intimate, so respectful, like they’re in some kind of bubble she never wants to burst. His hands go under her clothes, and suddenly they’re wide and warm on her skin, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles on her back.

He’s looking at her with such an intensity she almost sees what she wants to see, “Is this okay too?”

She nods, unable to focus on anything else but his touch. Her own hands are on his arms, but she can’t move. All she can think about is how relaxed she feels, how safe, how cared for. 

“Clarke.”

Her name falls off his lips like a forbidden plea. She meets his eyes. 

“Yes?”

“I need you to promise me something.”

His husky voice makes her tug at her bottom lip unconsciously, and she’s not ready to hear what he says next.

“I need you to promise me that nobody else will ever touch you like this.”

Her heart stops, and so does her breathing. She’s expecting him to hold her tighter, to feel his hands roughen on her skin, but they don’t. 

“Why are you asking me that?”, she whispers, and notices for the first time how close their faces really are. His head is tilted downwards, forehead almost touching hers. 

Bellamy feels his heart beating so fast he thinks it’s going to stop all of a sudden, “Nobody deserves to touch you like this. Clarke, you are…”

She wants him to say it, but she knows he won’t. Not because he doesn’t feel it, but because he’s scared. He’s afraid of pushing her away, of showing her his true instincts. But what he doesn’t know is that she’s seen right through him all this time, and she wants  _ this _ Bellamy. 

“Say it,” she commands, faces impossibly close to each other’s, his forehead now pressed against hers. 

Bellamy closes his eyes and breathes in, “You’re mine,” he breathes out. 

Clarke swallows, and feels her stomach sink with an unknown emotion, “I’m not one of your girls, Bellamy.”

“No, you’re not,” silence. She can only hear her heart beating, “You’re  _ my _ girl. The only one.”

She shakes her head so faintly he almost misses it, “You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word,” she notices it then, how his fingers press into her skin but not enough to make her uncomfortable, and suddenly she can’t believe his hands are actually  _ on _ her. 

“Prove it.”

In a second, the room falls away around her. The world stops, and so does time, and all she feels is a soft pressure on her lips, shy almost, and her heart jumping. Bellamy is _kissing_ her. Bellamy is really kissing her, and it feels like the sun, the moon, and the stars all at once. Like the first breath of fresh air down on Earth. 

It isn’t desperate, it isn’t needy or demanding, and yet that is exactly how it leaves her feeling. She needs more of him. There is nothing they could say that would make any sense right now. No words can describe this feeling. His lips on hers are more than enough to express what their words could never. 

“Bell…,” she murmurs once they pull away. He hums, so close to her lips again, “I… I want you to touch me.”

“Touch you,” he repeats, and he can’t believe her words. He needs to make sure, “How do you want me to touch you, Clarke?”

She breathes softly against his skin, “I need you to make me feel something other than…”

She can’t say it. She needs him to erase those memories, to make her fearless again like he always does. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispers, fingers caressing her cheek, “I’ll make you forget.”

And so she nods, and his lips find hers once more. 

At first it’s slow, gentle, almost as if he’s really making sure she’s not uncomfortable. But when Clarke relaxes into his arms, he knows that he hasn’t misread the situation at all. He parts her full lips with his tongue, slowly and exploring, tangling it immediately with hers. 

Clarke can’t believe this is happening. Both of her hands hold onto his bulky arms, the ones she’s stared at so many times, afraid her knees would give out if he lets her go. But she knows he wouldn’t. When he captures her lower lip between his teeth, pulling gently at it yet with a roughness she’s never experienced before, a small moan escapes from the back of her throat. Bellamy’s grip on her waist tightens instantly, his primal instinct kicking in, and he starts guiding her backwards until her back finds the softness of his mattress.

Then, the unexpected. One of his hands leaves the comfort of her hips and holds hers instead. He presses his palm against her own, and suddenly Clarke can’t look away. His hand completely covers her own, and notices that his palm is much wider up close. She senses a kind of intimacy between them then that almost feels overwhelming. 

“Don’t think I haven’t caught you staring at my hands, Princess,” he smirks then, his playful tone making her blush, “You’re not that subtle.”

Instead of shying away, she smirks back, “And what about it?”

Bellamy’s smirk only gets wider, “Thought we could do something about that,” he says, and before she can say anything else, his hand detaches from hers and goes back to her waist, where he holds her tightly as his lips collapse with hers again. 

She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He grunts when she catches his bottom lip between her teeth, tugging at it with desire. She needs him. 

And he gets the message. As soon as he checks that she’s okay, he undoes the buttons on her jeans with eager fingers, and proceeds to touch her skin under her stomach, testing the waters. It sends bolts running through her skin, and she finds herself buckling her hips up, looking for that desperate contact. 

“Bell…,” she begs, and he smirks against her lips in response. 

“I got you, baby.”

It’s the nickname that does it. His fingers start reaching lower, under her clothes and into where she wants them to be. So long, so thick, she can’t handle the anticipation.

Then, it happens. 

Bellamy’s middle finger parts her slick folds and rubs her there, until her breathing accelerates and she’s a complete mess. He knows what she wants — he can read her body like an open book already. Once his finger is finally inside her, it feels like she’s being torn apart. She’s never had anything like this inside of her, not so long, so thick. Her own fingers never reached so far, never made her feel so much pleasure. 

“ _ Fuck _ , you’re so tight, Princess,” he groans against her neck, “You’ve never been fucked before, have you sweetheart?”

She shakes her head no, and lets out a small moan as Bellamy curls his finger inside of her, “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll take care of you.”

His words cling to her heart and make it warmer somehow. She’s never felt this before, this combination of wanting him to give her raw pleasure and make her feel loved all at once. But he’s doing just that.

He’s rubbing circles around her clit now, lips exploring her own and getting used to the new sensation of having Clarke all for himself, as it should always be. 

“You’re so fucking tight, Princess,” he groans against her lips, “But I think you can take another finger.”

Clarke only moans in anticipation, and buckles her hips up, desperate. His second finger stretches her even wider, making her scream. Bellamy immediately puts a hand over her mouth, “Careful, Princess. You don’t want the whole camp to hear.”

She gives him a knowing look, because  _ he _ obviously would like everyone else to hear, but all of a sudden Bellamy takes both of his fingers out, and she almost complains.

He brings them to her face then, where she sees how they glisten under the dim light of the tent. Is she really that wet?

“Taste yourself, babe,” he says, voice so rough she can’t say no. Not like she wants to, anyway — she’s curious to know what she tastes like. And so she wraps her mouth around his thick fingers, struggling to take both in, and sucks on them up and down like she read in a novel once. She can tell he likes it, because soon his eyes are following her every move, and they have this dark hint to them she’s so familiar with now. 

“Good girl,” he smirks when she’s done, and she’s about to ask if she wants her to return the favour, when suddenly he buries his face between her legs, “Open wide for me, Princess.”

So she does, and the next thing she feels is complete bliss. She draws in a breath, arches her back in pleasure, and clings to his hair for support as his lips kiss her sensitive folds. He’s so gentle she wants to scream. He’s in no kind of rush, as if he was mapping out her body carefully, and she doesn’t know how or why, but he seems to be enjoying himself. She didn’t think this would do much for him, but apparently she’s wrong. 

He increases his rhythm after a few minutes, licking and sucking and driving her insane. He can feel her walls pulsating around his tongue, and he smirks when she tells him she can’t handle it anymore. 

“Let it go,” he tells her, giving her a reassuring squeeze on her hips, “Come on, Princess. I got you. Come on my mouth. That’s it.”

And so she puts both hands over her mouth to prevent herself from screaming, and she lets go. She relaxes into his mouth as his tongue helps her ride out her high, licking her clean. She’s never been eaten out like this.  _ Fuck _ . She needs to feel this again. 

When he’s done, Bellamy sits back on the bed, a wide grin on his lips, “Did you enjoy it?”

Clarke needs a second to hold herself together again. She suddenly gets unconscious, as she’s naked from the waist down and completely exposed to him, but he’s not even looking at her body. He’s looking at her right in the eyes, and he’s smiling. 

“Bell, that was… That was incredible,” she admits, because there’s no point in denying it. 

“I’m glad it was,” he winks at her, something he’s never done before, but it’s not teasing. It feels like complicity, “I had my fun, too.”

She wants to return the favour, really, but after having released all that tension, she feels her eyelids getting heavier. She lays back and closes her eyes for a moment, feeling how Bellamy lays besides her. 

But she can’t fall asleep. No — not yet. There’s something in her mind, and it’s bothering her. She considers whether to voice it out loud, or just stay quiet. Whatever. He’s essentially seen her naked now. 

“I’m kind of embarrassed about the hands thing,” she admits. 

Bellamy lets out a low chuckle, “Well, don’t. It’s cute.”

She arches a playful eyebrow at that, “Cute?”

He hums, and takes her hand in his as if to reassure her. Her heart stops, “You’re cute.”

“I’m also your girl, apparently,” she says without thinking, but it’s too late now. 

Bellamy’s eyes are locked on their intertwined fingers, a small smile on his lips as he whispers, “Would you want to be?”

His tone sounds serious now, and she feels her heart jumping inside her chest. She needs to be honest about this. As much as she wants to be something more to him, to have  _ this _ Bellamy to herself, there’s something she would never tolerate. Not after Finn. And so she says, honestly, “I’d love to be the only one.”

Bellamy doesn’t hesitate, “There’s never been anyone else for me, Clarke. Not like this.”

She believes him. Her heart feels safe with him, and she never wants to let go of this feeling. 

Closing her eyes, she feels him pulling her into his chest, then carefully throwing one of the furs over their bodies. This is it. Complete peace. 

They’ll have enough time to talk about this in the morning, to discuss what tonight means for their relationship. But right now, she breathes his scent in like she’s going to forget, and drifts off to sleep with the feeling of his lips against her forehead. 

His gentle hand is caressing her back softly, and she’s never felt safer.


End file.
